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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap. - Copyright No.--- 
ShelfHSH5i5 
/?60 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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ITn flftan? flfcoote- 



POEMS BY 



T* Berry Smith* 



FAYETTE, MO. 
1900. 



25 8< 






w&t* 



AUG 3 1900 



7281Q 

Copyright, 1900, by T. Berry Smith. 



M. B. YEAMAN, Fainter, Fayette, Mo. 



INDEX. 



Above the Mists 22 

After 44 

After the Storm, Peace 20 

After Twenty Years 21 

An Exhortation 35 

As Man Wills : 25 

At a Church Wedding 23 

At Life's High Noon 19 

Autograph 26 

Autumn Conceit 18 

Bull and Boar— A Fable 74 

Cain and Abel 89 

Christmas in Ashantee 91 

Clock's Monitions 27 

Coequal Mates 24 

Come Ye Blessed 28 

Constancy 40 

Cradle Song 26 

Crossing the Bar 30 

Curfew Will Be Rung at Night 14 

Dead Leaves in the Wind 32 

"Don't Cheer, Boys" 76 

Dreamland 82 

Dying Child 41 

Every Little Helps S3 

Faith 33 

For Greed of Empire or of Gold 73 

Gaffer 36 

George Washington 44 

God's Work and Man's 81 

Hieroglyphics of God 7 

Hoeman's Protest 10 

Illustrious Live3 34 

Intimations of Immortality 84 

In de City ob St. Louis in 1903 98 

"In Memory of " 53 

In Memoriam 49 



In the Chapel Choir 45 

Insistency of Song 50 

It Touched a Chord 51 

Jacob's Dream 55 

Kate and Esau 93 

Lasses 87 

Life is What We Will 20 

LookUp 48 

Lord of All Life 13 

Luck and Pluck 64 

Minniamo Arkla 97 

Minstrel of the Air 57 

Mother Love 61 

My Deathless Self 83 

Nature's Worship 58 

Night 81 

Night Bringeth Rest 60 

Ode to Shakespeare 62 

Once a Piker Always a Piker 92 

Pikers at Home 63 

'Possum Huntin' 94 

Questions for the Materialist 65 

Remember Me 80 

Resignation 65 

Sleep and Death 47 

Song of Thanksgiving 66 

The Hearse 82 

The Grave 83 

They Voted Straight for Pike 90 

Three Blues of Springtime 72 

To the North Wind 80 

To a Mourning Robin 59 

To a Comet 9 

To a Young Man 67 

Unknown to Unknown 70 

Under the Stars 67 

Vernalia — 1 

Victoria Regina. 71 

Westward ' 68 

Wife of Benedict Arnold 78 

Wind and Tide 79 



Ifn flhnny flftoobs. 



PART I. 
IN SOBER STRAIN. 



FOREVERSE. 

I would rather be the factor 

Of a song the world repeats 
Than the blood illumined actor 

Drawn in triumph thro' the streets; 
His the victor's scenic glory 

Dying with the rabble's cheers; 
Mine the poet's classic story 

Living thro' the lapsing years. 



VERNALIA. 

(pictures of springtime.) 

Bowed at thy altar, 

Trembling I falter, 
Bringing, O Spring, this offering of mine; 

Toiling I've builded 

Frames that are gilded 
'Round about many a picture of thine. 

I. 

Sunshine and showers 
Waken the flowers — 

Waken the innocent flowers from rest; 
Long they've been sleeping, 
Mother Earth keeping 

Lovingly, warmly, clasped to her breast. 

II. 

First of the number 

Waking from slumber, 
Creeping the moldering foliage through, 

Like a good angel 

Bringing evangel, 
Comes the wild violet nodding and blue. 



III. 

Buttercups golden 

Skyward are holden 
Set to catch raindrops spilled from the clouds,- 

Set for night's brewing — 

Dewdrops accruing 
While the stars shine and stillness enshrouds. 

IV. 

Down from their sources, 

Swift in their courses, 
Brooklets unfettered frolic and fall; 

Drink that divine is, 

Better than wine is, 
Bring they unstinted, priceless to all. 

V. 

Lightnings and thunder 

Waken our wonder, 
Born of the raincloud suddenly brewed, — 

Breath of its blowing, 

Tears of its flowing 
Falling on plowed land, meadow and wood. 

VI. 

Nightly in Bogland, 

Kingdom of Frogland, 
Traineth a multitudinous choir; 

Bass note and treble — 

Pebble 'gainst pebble, 
Castanet, drum and dissonant lyre. 



VII. 

Singing with gladness, 

Banishing sadness, 
Back from the southland winging their flight, 

Come the sweet singers, 

Merriment bringers, 
Birds of the daytime— birds of the night. 

VIII. 

Foremost and bluest, 

Type of the truest, 
Cometh the bluebird heralding change; 

Never come mortals 

Back to old portals 
Gladder than bluebirds do to old range. 

IX. 

Robin the Redbreast 

Seems to have dread lest 
Never his sweet song all will be sung; 

Daybreak he trilleth, 

Eventide filleth 
Full of the magical notes of his tongue. 

X. 

Yellow as gold is 

Wondrously bold is 
Oriole building out on the tips — 

Out where the straying 

Winds will blow, swaying, 
Swinging her hammock proof against slips. 



XL 

Old haunts reviewing, 

Old loves renewing, 
Swallows come twittering under the sky — 

Not till the gloaming 

Do they cease roaming, 
Not till the night fall chimneyward fly. 

XII. 

Then when' night falleth 

Whippoorwill calleth 
Piping thrice iterate notes that are quaint; 

If in the nearness, 

Strong in their clearness, 
If the farness, flutelike and faint. 

XIII. 

Lo! how the sombre 
Woodlands encumber 

All of their tree tops thickly with leaves — 
Looms where the sunshine 
Fabric that's spun fine 

Through the long summer silently weaves. 

XIV. 

White camps of apple 

Green valleys dapple, 
Floating their banners high in the sun, 

Camps where hereafter 

Jubilant laughter 
Witness shall be of victories won. 



XV. 

Fair as blush laden 

Cheek of a maiden, 
Hued like a sea shell charming us so, 

Crabtrees their blushing 

Petals are flushing — 
Dashes of dawn laid lightly on snow. 

XVI. 

Winter's sleep ended 

Beauty that's splendid 
Bursts from the cerements chrysalids wear; 

Type of that urgent 

Season when surgent 
Nations shall meet the Lord in the air. 

XVII. 

While the night shadows 
Gloom o'er the meadows 

Scintillant fireflies rise from the grass, 
Seeming like sparkling 
Stars that shoot darkling, 

Swift to be lost in solitudes vast. 

XVIII. 

When the cock croweth 

While the day groweth, 
Rises the farm boy ruddy as wine, 

Rises and ranges 

Over the granges, 
Up from the grassland driving the kine. 

5 . 



XIX. 

Forth to their sowing 

Farmers are going, 
They of the wheatland, oatland and corn; 

Oft while the dayspring 

Plumeth its gray wing 
These are out breathing the fragrance of morn. 

XX. 

Children are playing 

All the day staying 
Out where the sunshine warmeth the air, 

Gathering of pleasure 

Bountiful measure, 
Bearing no burdens, knowing no care. 

XXI. 

Sunshine and showers! 

Foliage and flowers! 
This is Love's season — look at the birds! 

Lo! from his portal 

Man the immortal 
Goeth awooing, saying sweet words. 

XXII. 

Praises I bring thee, 

Spring, and I sing thee 
Paeans of gladness chorused with mirth; 

Glad all the birds are, 

Glad all the herds are, 
Glad all the people, glad the whole earth. 

6 —1887. 



HIEROGLYPHICS OF GOD. 

("They are the Hieroglyphics of God."— Archbishop Trench.) 

(Jlussicus. 

Why all of this toiling in nature— 

This study of flowers and rocks? 
What profit can come to the watcher 

By night, of the heavenly flocks? 
Why gather the life of the ocean, 

The life of the land and the air? 
Why follow the wind and the lightning 

In search of their mystical lair? 

Pkysicus. 

Most gladly I answer your questions, 

O delver in classical lore, 
Whose joy is the study of language 

Brought out of oblivion's store. 
You linger o'er human inscriptions 

Exhumed from the crypt and the clod, 
We study the language of nature— 

The hieroglyphics of God. 

These beautiful flowers that blossom 

And grow without limit or dearth, 
Which after the winter come teeming 

From hidden recesses of earth, 
Bring message to us of the rising 

Of long sleeping men from the sod, — 
This message is written in flowers— 

The hieroglyphics of God. 

7 



The globe is a hoary old volume 

Whose leaves are the layers of stone, 
And on them in letters of fossil 

The tale of the ages is strewn; 
To read it we gather the fossils 

And tracks where the Saurians trod, 
And bring them in patience together — 

The hieroglyphics of God. 

Above us the scroll of the heavens 

For patient translation is spread, 
And mighty in bright constellations 

Can the tale of the kosmos be read; 
By scannning the sky thro' the centuries 

While other men slumbering nod, 
The watchers unravel their meaning— 

Those hieroglyphics of God. 

We gather the life of the ocean, 

The life of the land and the air, 
And patiently search for the kinship 

That each to the other does bear; 
No matter how strangely constructed, 

No matter how common, how odd, 
These creatures are chapters of record 

In hieroglyphics of God. 

The wind and the lightning we study 
Tho' mystery their origin shroud : 

The one is born of the sunshine, 
The other is born of the cloud; 

8 



They both may be caged for a moment 
And energize bellows or rod, 

But both are the symbols of spirit 
And hieroglyphics of God. 

Your puzzles were gendered by mortals, 

Your problems invented by men, 
Who tarried awhile in the earth life 

Then vanished forever again. 
But ours have Author undying 

Whose pen is a magical rod: 
Forever His scroll of the heavens is spread- 
Forever His flowery page to be read — 
Forever His fossils discourse of the dead — 

All hieroglyphics of God. 

January, 1888. 



TO A COMET. 

O wanderer from where dost thou come to my sight 
And whither art going so radiantly robed? 

Hast been to the uttermost limits of night, 
And far into Nature's deep mysteries probed? 

No answer! No speech! O mysterious thing 
That burnest thy torch in the heavenly spans! 

Far from me my boasting of wisdom I fling 
And bowing I bury my face in my hands. 

1887. 



THE HOEMAN'S PROTEST. 

(In answer to Markham's ''Man With the Hoe.") 

Assailed, maligned, called "thing" and "shape" 

and "slave" 
And "brother to the ox," to make protest 
And fling the impeachment back, I stand today 
To plead my cause before a juried world. 

In terms of legal lore this is my brief: 

*One skilled in art saw me one day afield, 

Rough-shod, unkempt and bending o'er the clods, 

And limned me so, making me as I seemed 

That selfsame hour. Later a ^poet's eye 

Fell on the work the painter's hand had wrought, 

And he was set to musing. Then he wrote, 

Wrote metred lines high on the peaks of song, 

Seeing, not me a living figure formed 

Of flesh and blood and filled with breath of God, 

But my poor picture motionless and dead. 

The painter meant me type specific, saw 

One phase of many featured life and fixed 

It on his canvas — copying sober fact. 

The poet made me type generic, saw 

At second hand the painter's glimpse of truth, 

Then wrote at random — following fancy's train. 

juried world before whose bar I stand, 

1 pray you patience while I make my plea. 
Hear ye a parable. One day at eve 

One skilled in art looked on the low-hung moon, 

*Jean Millet. JEdwin Markham. 

IO 



A crooked rim above the western hills, 

And limned its likeness on his seamless cloth. 

In after years somewhere 'mid cloistering walls 

That painters sketch a poet's fancy charmed 

And woke his muse to sing in lofty strains: 

This is the moon, a poor, pale crooked form, 

The relic of a once majestic world 

In outstretched arms holding her fossil self 

Would you, O world, subscribe the sentiment, 
Would you those lines applaud as all the truth, 
Who o'er and o'er above the eastern hills 
Have seen the moon in full-orbed splendor rise 
And yield rich radiance thro' night's sunless hours? 

Such pictures, beautiful tho' they be and true, 
Portray at best for man and moon alike 
A single phase; but moons and men have both 
A thousand phases, changing hour by hour, 
And many a phase have I. 

Lo! while I speak 
I am no longer bending o'er the clods, 
But stand erect with brow upturned to heaven 
And plead my cause, a very son of God 
Tho' leaning on the hoe. 

I am no craven. 
When bugles blow and herald voice is heard 
Crying the call to arms and war's alarm, 
None sooner hears or better soldier makes 
Nor ever has in any age. Behold, 
From field and plow and peaceful rural scenes 

ii 



Came Cincinnatus and great Washington! 

I am no dullard. Countless of my kind 

Have worn with pride the scholar's cap and gown, 

Adorned the judge's bench, the bishop's seat, 

And added luster to the thrones of kings. 

I am no underling. I am the staff 

On which the whole world leans. I am the stock — 

The old Edenic stock—from which have sprung 

All other tribes of men. I am indeed 

The seedcorn of the race. 

And know ye this: 
From Eden until now, from Adam's self 
Unto his latest born, the hoe has been 
The sign of toil appointed me of God, 
But I who bear it, battling with the clods, 
Am not therewith disgraced. I may bend o'er — 
I must to wield the hoe — and so be found, 
Begrimed, unkempt and clad in coarsest garb, 
Yet Kings and Monarchs have not bowed me down, 
Nor am I serf dependent on their boon: 
I am the freest of all the sons of men 
And richest I of all my kith and kin; 
Of Nature's dower 'round me everywhere, 
My heritage the first-born's double share. 

The trades of other men are all their own 
And have their limitations, hedging life 
In meagre metes and bounds, but this of mine, 
Given of God, has neither hedge nor hem, 
Goes on when others cease, owns earth and air, 
The dews of morn, the frequent showers of rain, 



12 



The blessed light of oft recurring suns, 
And, best of all, the infinite Father's care. 

So I protest and fling the impeachment back. 
I, son of Adam, first born son of God, 
Am not a "slave," a "brother to the ox," 
"A thing that grieves not and that never hopes." 
I am the central figure in all the world 
Which the horizon bounds, and other men 
Attend me as the planets do the sun; 
From me they draw all bounty, all support, 
And in my failure find their surest loss. 

— August, 1899. 



LORD OF ALL LIFE. 

Lord of all life, be thou the Lord of mine, 
Help me to know, in service such as thine, 
Is happiest lot that mortal can possess — 
In serving thee is truest happiness. 

Lord of all life, of mine be thou the Lord 
Till death do clip this earthlife's tenuous cord, 
And then in heaven thy royal throne before 
Let me still serve, and serving, thee adore. 

Lord of all life, of mine the Lord be thou 
Till fails the form I wear in service now, 
And when I yield fore'er this vital breath 
Still let me serve beyond the bounds of death. 
1894. 

13 



CURFEW WILL BE RUNG AT NIGHT. 

O'er the hills the sun was setting, ( many a year had 

taken flight 
Since that maiden triumphed, saying ''Curfew shall 

not ring to-night," ) 
But the sexton long so faithful did not ring the 

curfew bell 
As the twilight shadows lengthened and the hush 

of evening fell; 
Since the morning sun had risen he had lost his 

mortal might 
And could only lie and murmur: "Curfew can not 

ring to-night." 

It was summer, and his couch was placed beside a 

latticed case 
So the cooling winds could enter and blow o'er his 

pallid face. 
Now around and o'er that lattice grew a vine of 

living green 
All so densely interwoven that no sunlight came 

between, 
But a passing happy maiden, rosy as the western 

light, 
Caught the old man's feeble murmur: "Curfew 

can not ring to-night." 

They were friends, the man and maiden. In the 
days forever flown 

H 



He had told her many a story of the trials he had 

known; 
So his troubled lamentation took a firm hold on 

her mind 
And her heart and hands enlisted in a secret 

service kind, 
For she forthwith turned her footsteps to the belfry 

full in sight, 
Ran and rang the evening curfew as it long had 

been at night. 

When the deep reverberations of the mighty 

clanging tongue 
Of the bell that quaked and quivered as it to-and- 

froward swung, 
Rolled and rippled thro' the lattice to the couch 

whereon he lay, 
Then a look of sweet surprisal o'er his face began 

to play, 
And he said: "Good woman, tell me who it is that 

knows my plight 
And is in the belfry ringing dear old curfew bell 

to-night?" 

Answered then the old wife: "Goodman, I know 

not who rings the bell; 
May be elves or fairies ring it— but I'm sure I can 

not tell." 
Answered then the old man nothing, but in mood 

to death akin 

15 



Lay in peace and listened — listened to the sonance 
floating in; 

Thus he lay and listened — listened till had faded 
day's last light 

And the moon had grown resplendent in the fore- 
ground of the night. 

When it ceased the old man whispered: "I shall 

hear those tones no more; 
When again the curfew soundeth, I'll be on the 

other shore. 
I have tried to do my duty, tho' my lot has lowly 

been, 
Yet the throng at church will miss me as it wanders 

out and in; 
If 'twere fairies rang this evening ere my spirit 

took its flight, 
Men will know I'm dead to-morrow and the curfew 

ring at night." 

With the morrow came the maiden asking for her 

aged friend, 
And she found him lying lifeless. Straightway 

hurrying forth again, 
She informed the nearest neighbors, those who 

long the man had known, 
That betwixt the dark and dawn their aged ringer's 

soul had flown. 
Then in gathered all the people and performed the 

usual rite 

16 



With that form of kindness fostered where the 
curfew rings at night. 

Then 'twas asked: "Who rang the curfew at sun- 
set yestere'en?" 

And the old wife briefly answered: "May it not 
have fairies been? 

I know not that any mortal knew my gooodman's 
stricken state, 

And — perhaps 'twas elves or fairies rang the bell 
last eve at eight." 

Then this woman's idle fancy took the wings of 
truth for flight, 

And 'twas told for fact that fairies rang the curfew 
yesternight. 

Some one fond of story telling said that on the 
ivied wall 

He had watched the fairies clambering till they 
reached the belfry tall, 

Then like bees in swarming clusters on the rope 
some hung to pull 

While some scaled the vines of ivy in the moon- 
light fair and full 

And sat on the rolling axle as the bell rocked left 
and right, 

Ringing the evening curfew as it long had done at 
night. 

When 'twas noised thro' all' the country that the 
curfew bell was tolled 

17 



By the tiny hands of fairies for the dying sexton 

old, 
Then the old man who, while living, to the world 

was scarcely known, 
Had his name and deeds and sayings, like sweet 

odors, widely blown; 
Like the bell he'd hung in silence thro' the living 

hours of light 
And was heard of only after came the slumbering 

hour of night. 

Ah! 'tis so in every station! After life has fled the 

frame, 
Men are prone to laud the fallen and to magnify 

the name! 
All thro' active years unnoticed, many a mortal 

lowly lives, 
And at last in Nature's order back to God the 

spirit gives; 
Yet the lowliest dead are noticed if they've lived 

at all aright — 
When the daylight turns to darkness — curfew 

WILL BE RUNG AT NIGHT. 

-l877. 



AUTUMN CONCEIT. 

When Autumn kisses Golden Rod 

She coyly hangs her head, 
Whereat the Sumach is ashamed 

And blushes scarlet-red. 

18 —1888. 



i88 5 . 



AT LIFE'S HIGH NOON. 

Standing upon the crest of years 

Meted to mortal man, 
I see the far off shores that bound 

The slopes on either hand. 
'Tis life's high noon and o'er my head 

The sun in splendor shines, 
My shadow on life's dial plate 

Has reached the shortest lines. 



Yonder the sea — the sea of Birth — 

Within whose harbors ride 
The barks of men who enter in 

Upon the rising tide; 
And yon the sea — the sea of Death 

Whence while the waters fall 
The barks of men go out again 

To come no more at all. 



I know the eastern slope of life, 

Now memory's garden green; 
I see the mileposts I have passed 

And all the way between; 
But down the foreway sloping swift 

Toward the Western sea; 
I know not what of joy or grief 

May be in store for me. 



19 



AFTER THE STORM, PEACE. 

Lo! 'long the East are gathered snow white clouds 
In mighty heaps than mountains far more tall, 

And thro' them leaps anon the lightning's flash 
Illuming far and wide this earthly ball. 

Few hours ago the storm king passed o'erhead, 
Frighting the world with thunders loud and long; 

And gave the earth as precious recompense 

Swift slanting drops that fell in countless throng. 

Now night has come and in the zenith high 
The radiant moon — fair Dian's silvern boat— 

'Mid fleecy clouds as white as driven snow 
Like flying barge seems ceaselessly to float. 

The air is cooled, and to its softest kiss 
As lover fond I bare my blushing cheek, 

While far away my eyes admiring watch 

The lightnings leap o'er many a snowy peak. 

God's peace abides throughout a slumbering world, 
In yonder moon that peeps thro' clouds apart, 

And in the sense of deep composure sweet 

That comes to me: God's peace is in my heart. 

—1889. 



LIFE IS WHAT WE WILL TO MAKE IT. 

Life is what we will to make it, 
There is no such thing as Fate: 
There's a Heaven — we may forsake it 
Or go in at the pearly gate. 

20 



AFTER TWENTY YEARS. 

Aft twenty years of life together 
Thro' every kind of wind and weather, 

Returns the day: 
Dearest, I'm glad I wooed you then, — 
Turn back the years and I'd woo again 

The selfsame way. 

If fancy in that far beginning 

Played ample part with love in winning 

Our hearts' agree, 
To-day I'm sure that fancy's naught 
And only truest love is aught 

To you and me. 

'Tis strange how love two hearts can tether, 
Then draw those hearts more close together 

Thro' fleeting years, 
Until at length they beat as one, 
Their pulsing tides together run 

Thro' smiles and tears. 

'Tis strange, and yet there's no denying 
Love's power to do in souls undying 

His wondrous things; 
Like Death he enters the peasant's hut, 
Nor 'gainst him can the door be shut 

In homes of kings. 

I pity much that lonely human, 
I care not whether man or woman, 
Whom love hath missed; 

21 



Unknown to such the joy that slips 
From soul to soul when lover's lips 
Are lover-kissed. 

Twice ten the years of joy and sorrow 
Since we were wed, and on the morrow 

Returns the day: 
Dearest, I'm glad I wooed you then, — 
Turn back the years and I'd woo again 

The selfsame way. 

— December 26, 1897. 



ABOVE THE MISTS IS SUNLIGHT. 

("Be Not Cast Down."— Psalms x-ii.) 

The vales down which you journey 

May be obscured in mist, 
While all the hills above you 

By sunlight sweet are kissed; 
Not infinite toil would help you 

Scatter those mists away, 
But climbing a little higher 

Will bring you cloudless day. 

So when the gloom of sorrow 

Hangs thick about your soul, 
And life's beset with troubles 

Which you can not control, 
What use to be dejected? 

Go up Faith's hills upon 
And there undimmed as ever 

Behold the Eternal Sun. 

22 — 1891 



AT A CHURCH WEDDING. 

God's house is thronged. The expectant crowd 
is waiting 

To hear the vows of plighted man and maid; 
Tho' old the scene, its charm knows no abating 

And pleases yet as when in Eden laid. 

The altar wears unwonted wealth of flowers, 
Before whose front the surpliced priest appears; 

The organ rains its notes in joyful showers 

And the wedding march the hushing audience 
hears. 

Thro' wide-thrown doors at length the ushers enter 
And tread the aisles with steady step and slow; 

Then come the twain in whom all interests center, 
Whose lives henceforth as one the world must 
know. 

The music slumbers, but the hush is broken 
By quiet words of priest and groom and bride, 

As one by one the marriage vows are spoken 
The ring is given and the nuptial knot is tied. 

Then music wakes and bride and groom go slowly 
From altar front toward the outer door, 

Henceforth to live in that estate most holy 
Ordained of God in sinless days of yore. 

And then the throng makes haste to follow after, 
Crowding the doors now full wide open flung, 

And everywhere is heard the sound of laughter 
While merry peals from wedding bells are rung. 

January 16, 1897. 2 3 



COEQUAL MATES. 

At the last of those long epochs 

When the Cosmos was create 
God the Maker pitying Adam 

In his lordly lone estate, 
Gave him Eve, the first of women, 

Made his latest gift the best, 
Ere he entered on the sabbath 

Of his uncreating rest. 

Adam was the lord appointed 

Over every brute and tree, 
But the Lord gave Eve to Adam 

His coequal mate to be. 
He was king, by Heaven empowered, 

Over all on sea or land; 
She was queen and her dominion 

Was as wide as his command. 

He the stronger, she the weaker, 

In the outer make and mold; 
He the coarser, she the finer, 

In the spirit's inner fold; 
He excelled where brawn was needed, 

She in tenderness prevailed, 
But they both bore equal courage 

And in wisdom neither failed. 

Each one had appointed duties, 
Served an equal part in life: 

Each was to the other lover — 
He the husband, she the wife; 

24 



He the father, she the mother, 
Both by family cares were tried, 

Both the burden bore of sorrow 
When their murdered Abel died. 

Their dominions they transmitted 

To the coming tribes of men, 
And today the world should show us 

Their coequal lives as then. 
Man should be the lover, husband, 

Feather, son and kindly brother; 
Woman be the sister, daughter, 

Sweetheart, wife and patient mother. 

All of Adam's sons should cherish 

All the daughters Eve hath borne 
As coequals and companions — 

Their eternal liege-lords sworn; 
Then the lost estate of Eden 

Would return in beauty bright, 
And the world would once more revel 

In the old Edenic light. 

-1897. 



AS MAN WILLS. 

From a block of marble comes an angel or devi] 

Born of the sculptor's skill — 
And so from a man comes an angel or devil 

Just as the man may will. 

25 



CRADLE SONG. 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 
Upon thy mother's breast 
Where thou art cradled best 
Lie still and be at rest — 

Sleep, baby, sleep. 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 
While mother rocks and sings 
Fold up thy restless wings 
And take the gift she brings — 

Sleep, baby, sleep. 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 
Thy mother's arms are strong, 
And 'mid life's busy throng 
She'll fend thee from all wrong — 

Sleep, baby, sleep. 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 
Thine eyes are closed at last 
And all thy woes are past; 
Mother will hold thee fast — 

Sleep, baby, sleep. 



1892. 



AN AUTOGRAPH. 

In the emerald fields of memory, 

Where no winters ever be, 
Plant the sweetest flower thou knowest 

And cherish it for me. 

26 —1884. 



THE CLOCK'S MONITIONS. 

I hear the beat of a restless heart 

Which day and night keeps going, 
And hour by hour its wondrous power 
Compels a voice from the upper tower 
To tell how time is flowing. 

Just now it sounded the hour of nine, 

Thro' the starlit silence calling, 
The cares of day have been laid away 
And white robed forms have kneeled to pray 
And now to sleep are falling. 

But ere I sleep I fain would write 

What thoughts that heart is telling 

As to and fro, now high, now low, 

It ceases not to come and go 

Time's death forever knelling. 

'Tis strange the heart of a senseless thing 

Should set my brain to thinking, 
And by its beat rouse memories sweet 
And send my soul on fancy's feet 

Strange thoughts in order linking. 

That restless heart one solemn truth 
From nature keeps repeating: 

Here is no stay by night or day — 

In one brief hour of time we say 
Our farewell and our greeting. 
1888. 

27 



"COME YE BLESSED.' 7 

(Written the day after the death of Frances E. Willard.) 

"Come ye blessed of my Father" — hark! the 
heavenly herald calls 

From the battlements of heaven, standing on the 
outer walls; 

Every day the angel calleth — every hour the 
trumpet sounds 

And the summons flies insistent unto Earth's re- 
motest bounds. 

"Come ye blessed of my Father" — station stayeth 

not, nor age, — 
His are all the pure in spirit — prince and peasant, 

serf and sage, 
Prattling infant in the cradle, silent sovereign on 

the throne, 
Each alike obeys the summons when the angel's 

trump is blown. 

"Come ye blessed of my Father" — yester came 

the mighty call 
From the angel who is herald standing on the outer 

wall — 
All the battlements were crowded where the 

heavenly herald stood: 
They were gathered there to welcome one of 

earth's supremely good. 

28 



"Come ye blessed of my Father" — they were look- 
ing forth intent 

As the children do at evening when the busy day 
is spent, 

Who are waiting for the coming of a soul to them 
akin 

That has spent the day in serving and at night is 



"Come ye blessed of my Father" — Frances Willard 

heard the call 
And her saintly spirit hastened to her kindred on 

the wall; 
Down the distance they beheld her coming thro' 

the twilight space — 
All the joy of homeward going written plainly on 

her face. 

"Come ye blessed of my Father" — O the greeting 

that they gave 
When she entered thro' the portals and stood on 

the golden pave! 
Saints and angels gathered 'round her, and her 

Elder Brother smiled 
While the Father stooped and kissed her, saying 

"Welcome home, my child." 

— February 19, 1898. 



29 



CROSSING THE BAR. 

Where meet the floods of sea and river 

Along the ocean's strand, 
The sailor finds a hindrance ever — 
An unseen bar of sand. 
The river bears its burden seaward, the ocean 

flings it back, 
And so a bar is builded ever across the river's track. 

Aye, builded once 'tis builded ever, 

Unceasing night and day, 
This bar between the sea and river — 
The threshold of the bay; 
There low it lieth 'neath the waters, concealed 

from sun and star, 
And only the pilot born beside it can surely cross 
the bar. 

Inside that bar the tempest dieth 

And men may calmly sleep, — 
Beyond the bar forever lieth 

The great unmeasured deep. 
On either side that hidden barrier betwixt the land 

and sea 
The bark that beareth precious burden from peril 
may be free. 

But never a tireless ocean rover, 

Sailing toward the land, 
Attempts to cross that barrier over 

Without a pilot's hand; 

30 



And never a ship sails down the harbor going to 

climes afar 
Without the hand of a trusty pilot to guide It over 

the bar. 

Ah! many a vessel wrecked and broken, 

Its crew and cargo lost, 
Along the bar gives silent token 
What recklessness hath cost. 
Proud souls in their own powers trusting no pilot's 

cunning sought, 
And lo! the ribs of wreck discover what fate their 
folly wrought. 

Lo! there's a bar of another order 
But the semblance is complete, 
Which hidden lies along the border 
Where youth and manhood meet: 
Inside the bar is childhood's harbor, beyond it 

manhood's sea, 
And at the hidden bar between them the direst 
perils be. 

This bar is strewn with vessels human 

Who would no pilot brook, 
And many a man and many a woman 
All hope just here forsook. 
If ever a pilot's hand is needed to make this life 

complete, 
'Tis at the bar which all must traverse where youth 

and manhood meet. 
1894. 

3i 



DEAD LEAVES IN THE WIND. 

I saw dead leaves one day scurrying before the 

blast, 
Rustling around my feet and swiftly hurrying past. 
Few days agone they'd hung high on the forest 

trees 
Drinking the sunshine in and laughing in the 

breeze; 
They'd hung a living host as countless as the stars 
Or as the grains of sand along the ocean bars, 
And every single leaf in all that countless host 
Was doing its wonted work at its appointed post. 

Alas! how glory fades! The frost king came by 
night 

And smote that leafy host with all his cruel might. 

When noonday came again the carnage was wide- 
spread 

And leaf on leaf the ground was covered with the 
dead; 

Their faded banners torn and trailing in the dust 

Were made the merry sport of every passing gust, 

And 'neath the barren trees which yesterday they 
crowned 

The wanton winds took hold and whirled them 
'round and 'round. 

As they went scurrying on — those leaves before 

the blast — 
Rustling around my feet and swiftly hurrying past, 

32 



I thought of frightened birds whose wings are 

wounded sore 
Fleeing in broken flight some dreadful foe before; 
For wounded birds some sense of sympathy would 

start, 
And I perchance would weep, aye, heart would 

beat with heart, 
But for those fallen leaves all withered, dead and 

dry, 
I had no tears to shed, I did not even sigh. 
1804. 



EVERY LITTLE HELPS. 

One little beam of sunshine 

Crept thro' a lattice closed 
And fell upon a cushion 

On which a babe reposed; 
The child on waking saw it 

And laughed in merry mood: 
And so a beam of sunshine 

Accomplished something good. 



187; 



FAITH. 



There's many a soul goes over the billowy sea 
And knows no more of him that guides the ship 
The pilot at the wheel — than do we all 
Of Him who steers the bark of life across 
The stormy gulf of time; yet there is One 
With watchful eye — somewhere — at the helm. 

33 



ILLUSTRIOUS LIVES. 

A young oak grew at the rugged roots 
Of a cluster of mighty trees, 

Whose crowns majestic stood aloft 
And caught the evening breeze. 

It stood and gazed — this tender oak 
Which grew at the rugged roots — 

It stood and gazed at their lofty crowns 
Which bore abundant fruits. 

"I wish — I wish," the young oak said, 

"That I was tall as these, 
So I might bear abundant fruit 

And catch the evening breeze." 

And then the giant oaks that stood, 
Their boughs with fruitage hung, 

Looked down upon the tender oak 
Growing their feet among, 

And kindly whispered: "We as thou 
Were once as small and tender, 

And these old trunks so thick and stout 
Were once as weak and slender; 

" 'Twas only after many a year 
Of growth of branch and root, 

That we attained the honor large 
To bear abundant fruit. 

34 



"Be patient, child; 'tis Nature's law 
That we grow old and die, 

But thou wilt rear in time thy head 
As near the vaulted sky; 

"And on thy crown as on ours now, 
Shall hang abundant fruit, — 

Thy leaves shall rustle in the breeze 
When we lie low and mute." 

So spake the mighty oaks and ceased, 
Whereat the young oak smiled 

And said: "If all they say be true, 
I'll be a patient child; 

"With highest aim I'll look aloft 
And woo the air and sun, 

Nor will I be content to rest 
Till place that's best is won." 
1887. 



AN EXHORTATION. 

Live for the future that lieth before thee, 

Live to bring honor to the mother who bore thee, 

Live to win heaven bending high o'er thee. 

He is most noble who in life just beginning 
Turns head unto wisdom and heart unto winning 
Heaven where biddeth neither sorrow nor sinning. 

Up; while the day is before thee be doing! 
Hasten; the peace of high heaven be wooing! 
Spend not the future the bygone in rueing. 

35 



GAFFER. 

Seeing the sky at sunrise red 

An old man shook his hoary head — 

"I fear a storm today," he said. 

All day a hush hung over earth, 

The birds forebore their songs of mirth; 

Of sound and song there reigned a dearth. 

The night drew on, and as it came 

So faded out the western flame 

As fades life's flush from a dying frame. 

The old man sat the flue hard by 
And watched the fire. A sudden sigh 
Of wind came, weak as an infant's cry. 

"Didst hear it, dame, didst hear the wail, 
The first low cry of the coming gale? 
A storm is born, by the Holy Grail!" 

The sire arose and from the door 
Looked out toward the ocean shore 
Whence came a ceaseless sullen roar. 

The sky o'er head was clear, tho' dim, 

But on the sunset's purple rim 

Stood clouds like mountains dark and grim. 

The awful stillness that awhile 
Had held the world in durance vile 
Was flown before that frowning pile. 

36 



The wind that came along the lea 
From o'er the face of the deep wide sea 
Tickled the child at the old man's knee. 

Tickled the child because the air 
Brought coolness to her cheeks so fair 
And ran its fingers thro' her hair. 

But the old man groaned and heaved a sigh 
Hearing the wind's low ominous cry 
As thro' the house it hurried by. 

He'd heard that sound full many a time 
And knew 'twas more than a merry chime 
As full of joy as a festal rhyme. 

He knew 'twas stern as pledges said 
By living souls around the bed 
Of one about to join the dead. 

The rising wind's subdued refrain 
Foretold the storm king's fearful reign 
And ruin wrought on land and main. 

Now and again a fitful flush 

Would over the rugged cloud peaks rush 

As over a maiden's cheek a blush. 

"O Gaffer," the grandchild sweetly said, 

As back she tossed her curly head, 

"I know what makes the clouds flash red. 

"The angels have their homes inside 
And light their lamps at eventide 
As we do here where we abide. 

37 



"And when an angel opens his door, 

His lamp light flashes out before 

And makes the clouds look red all o'er." 

The Gaffer smiled and placed his hand 
On the curly head that so simply planned 
Reason for what men scarce understand. 

Soon turning back he closed the door, 

Sat in his chair the fire before 

And told his grandchild's sayings o'er. 

And then he spoke of the signs without, 
How ominous blew the wihds about 
And said there'd be a storm no doubt. 

An hour passed on, and in its flight 
Came 'round the usual things of night: 
Season of prayer and robes of white. 

The gray haired sire his Bible spread 
And from it as his wont was read 
Of things the Master did and said. 

Then kneeling with his family small 
He offered up his human call 
To Him who ruleth over all. 

At first he prayed in feeble tone; 
But with the night wind's rising moan 
Grew more impassioned still his own, 

Till it was anxious as the wail 
Intoned without by the growing gale 
So danger fraught to ship and sail. 

38 



One moment seemed the wind to cease: 
Amid the calm he asked God's peace, 
And all arose from off their knees. 

After awhile the child was led 
Enrobed in white to her little bed 
After her childish prayer she'd said. 

But unto them, the older grown, 

Came slumber not; they heard the moan 

Of w r inds around them fiercely blown. 

They sat in silence an hour through 
While wailed the winds within the fine 
That made them wail in spirit, too. 

And then again across the floor 
The old man went and oped the door 
Looking toward the ocean shore. 

No child now stands beside his knee, 
But on his arm stands leaning she 
Whose love was his while life should be. 

"Good dame," he said, "the wind is wild, 
And the lightning plays in fitful style 
As o'er a madman's face a smile. 

"I fear some ship from out this night 

Will never more behold the light 

Or sail thro' waters capped with white. 

"Hark! hear you how the billows roar 
Breaking along the beetling shore — 
How often we've heard them thus before! 

39 



"The frowning heavens seem wildly rife 

With fiercest elemental strife 

As if they meant war to the knife. 

"They do, good wife, you may depend: 
Sailors a fearful night will spend 
And some will never return again. 

"Come in — Come in — that lurid gleam 
Bedazzles me! How shrilly scream 
The winds that 'round about us teem!" 

They closed the door and barred it fast, 
Then sat and talked of the varied past 
Until the storm had ceased at last. 

Then unto rest they stole away 
To slumber till the light of day — 
The old man and his good wife gray. 



876. 



CONSTANCY— AN AUTOGRAPH. 

Beautiful snowflakes fill the air, 

Then fall and melt in the river; 
But moon and star in the sky afar 
And the blazing sun in his golden car 
Shine on the same forever. 

Be not, good friend, like snowflakes frail 

That fall and melt in the river, 
But like the stars that never pale 
And the sun and moon, until the wail 
Of earth shall cease forever. 

40 —1882. 



DYING CHILD. 

Sad and lonely in her cottage when the day was 

cold and drear 
And the sky was so beclouded that no sunshine 

could appear, 
Sat a woman busy only in the chambers of her mind, 
For she had no strong companion she could talk 

with, speaking kind. 

O'erspreading all her features was a look of deep 

despair 
And her forehead full was furrowed with the marks 

of carking care; 
But her eyes so dark and weary were not wet with 

briny tears 
As she sat there sad and lonely 'mid the silence 

and her fears. 

"Mother!" says a voice so faintly that it scarce had 

reached another 
Than the ear of loving woman, of a listening, loving 

mother, 
And a little form was stirring and a little hand was 

seen 
On the covering thin and ragged of a couch 

appareled mean. 

Swiftly as a woman ever, when the call of love is 

made, 
Goes to answer, so she hasted; and her hand was 

gently laid 

4i 



On the pale brow of her darling, while that tender 

look of love 
Which can come from woman only bent his wasted 

form above. 

"Mother, lift me up and let me see the sunshine," 

whispered he, 
As he tried her neck to circle as in days that used 

to be; 
But she said, "There is no sunshine," with a bitter 

sob of pain — 
"Kiss me, then," he said, "and call me when the 

sunlight comes again." 

Then upon his pallid forehead lovingly she pressed 

a kiss, 
And she knew her child was going soon to other 

world than this, 
And her only source of solace, (for she had no 

earthly friend,) 
Was to pray that she might follow where all pain 

and parting end. 

Down she sat again to ponder and to whisper with 

her thoughts, 
While the sums of things she added made but 

round and worthless naughts; 
And the day so cold and cheerless changed to 

doubly cheerless night, 
While the things then seen but faintly now went 

wholly out of sight. 

42 



While in darkness sat she thinking, loud her boy 

in rapture cried: 
"Mother! Mother! see the sunlight!" Then she 

hurried to his side, 
Saying "No, not here is sunlight— all is darkness 

in this place," 
But the child persisted saying: fit is shining in my 

face." 

"You are dreaming," then she told him, but the 

child that clasped her hand 
Whispered, "O how sweet the music, and the sun 

how bright and grand!" 
"No, 'tis dark, 'tis night," she faltered, but her 

darling did not hear 
For his soul had gone forever where the skies are 

always clear. 

By the margin of the river that we call the stream 

of death 
He had seen the light he spoke of with his very 

latest breath, 
Light that streamed beneath the curtains which 

the angels raised for room 
Where the little one could enter when he reached 

the heavenly home. 

—Yale College, May 13, 1876. 



43 



GEORGE WASHINGTON. 

As long as the stars shall glitter in heaven, 
As long as the cloud and sunshine are given. 
As long as the bow shall stand in its beauty 
And serve as a sentinel doing his duty, 
To silently tell to the children of men 
That danger from deluge can come not again, 
So long in the earth shall thy memory abide, 
So long shall thy name be remembered with pride, 
O thou who art foremost of glory's great ones — 
Thou grandest and best of Columbia's sons — 
George Washington. 

Strong men are inspired at mention of thee 
To do and to die, if necessity be, 
For all that is holy, for all that is just, 
For liberty's heritage left to their trust; 
And children are filled with as noble desires 
As those that inspirit the souls of their sires, 
When mention is made or in story or song 
Of all that thou didst in the battle with wrong, 
Thou manliest man, thou God-given chief, 
Freedom's evangel to a nation in grief, 

George Washington. — 1889. 



AFTER. 



After the sunset, darkness; 

After the dawning, day; 
After the earthlife, Heaven — 

Win it while you may. 

44 -1883. 



IN THE CHAPEL CHOIR. 

I sat today in the chapel choir — 
My long accustomed place — 

And sang as is my wont to sing 
Of Christ's redeeming grace, 

And in the space that spread before 
Was many an upturned face. 

Thro' all the throng I looked in vain 

For wonted votaries there, 
Nor could I catch their voices strong 

In each familiar air; 
I looked in vain through all the kirk 

For one face heavenly fair. 

Full many a Sabbath day serene 

Up there in the choir loft, 
I'd watched the worshippers come in 

With footfall sounding soft 
As if they trod the tufted turf 

Of some adjoining croft. 

Meseems a kirk's a harbor locked 

Against a restless sea 
While all the days are going by 

That twixt the Sabbaths be— 
The restless sea of human life 

That floweth ceaselessly. 

But when the hallowed seventh day 

On peaceful Nature smiles, 
The kirk's unlocked, and tides of men 

45 



Flow 'mong the quiet aisles 
And fill the pews, while music sweet 
The tired soul beguiles. 

The tides flow in — the tides flow out — 

And voyagers come and go, 
As freighted barks pass out and in 

Where ocean's waters flow; 
(The kirk is free from wrecking storm 

And treacherous undertow.) 

And so today from the choir loft 

I saw the gates thrown wide, 
And thro' those gates in quest of peace 

Came in the tired tide 
Of human life which all the week 

Had washed their seaward side. 

I scanned the throng, but all in vain, 

For one familiar face 
Whose wont had been on Sabbath days 

To seek the sacred place; 
Alas! we may not meet again 

This side the throne of Grace. 

Myself shall come and join the throng 

On Sabbath days to be, 
But in the throng that sits before 

One face I'll never see — 
Her face shall never turn again 

Those gladsome eyes on me. 

—1888. 

46 



SLEEP AND DEATH. 

Did you ever wonder, wand'ring on the border 

land of sleep: 
Wherein differs this from dying and a venture on 

the deep, 
On the deep of that eternal, that supernal after-life 
Where the frame is free from aching and the spirit 

free from strife? 

I have wondered under cover of the hovering wings 

of sleep 
While the slothful feet of slumber o'er my lids 

began to creep: 
In what mode or manner differs the descent to 

transient peace 
From the dreaded hour of dying and the spirit's 

long release ? 

Now I fold the covers o'er me and in peace go 

down to dreams 
With as much of fearless pleasure as a swan to 

summer streams, 
Not a moment do I falter, for I know I go to rest 
Where the body is unburdened and the weary 

spirit blest. 

And I know that when I waken I am never changed 

at all 
But am just the same in seeming as when into 

sleep I fall; 

47 



So I draw the stern conclusion that, when Judgment 

morn shall break, 
As I was before I slumbered in that likeness I 

shall wake. 

Now I fall asleep to waken in a little while again 
Unto other peeps of pleasure — unto other pangs of 

pain; 
Then my slumber will be longer, yea, thro' ages 

long shall last 
And will break to pain or pleasure in the eons 

overvast. 

If I do not dread this passing from my wakeful 

hours of sense 
Into inattentive slumber, but with pleasure hurry 

hence, 
Why should I with shudders tremble e'en to pass 

from time and pain 
To the sleep from which as mortal I shall never 

wake again? 

— Yale College, 1S75. 



LOOK UP. 

Look up, not down. The sun o'erhead 
Hangs high in God's blue heaven and burns 
With constant fire thro' all the years: 
Around us here are flowers and tears 
And crumbling bones and burial urns — 
Things earthly hang on slender threads. 

48 



IN MEMORIAM. 

(Sophie Barre Irwin,) 

My deathless self was yester filled with pain 

By saddening news: 
As one is numbed by fall of wintry rain 
So I was chilled and I could not restrain 

My eyelid's dews. 

The tide of years — the tireless tide of years — 

Turned back apace, 
Till I was past all present hopes and fears 
And looked again, tho' dimly thro' my tears, 

On one sweet face. 

A fair young girl whose presence made rne glad 

Before me stood, 
And learned with joy whate'er her teacher had 
Of goodly store that strength and grace would add 

To womanhood. 

I prized her then, as faithful teacher ought 

His pupil prize, 
And often when with care those days were fraught 
The sunshine of her happy face she brought 

And cleared my skies. 

When one has found a prize of precious kind 

He holds it dear; 
Tho' he may other precious treasures find, 
That prize to lose he's less and less resigned 

Each added year. 

49 



Then if some day should come the news of theft 

Beyond restore, 
Would it be strange that he should feel bereft 
And with his heart by sorrow's arrows cleft 

His tears outpour? 

Few were the words that caused my spirit pain 

When they were read, 
Few were the words that fell like wintry rain 
And chilled me thro' and thro' — these words of bane 

Were: "Sophie's dead." 

Had sudden shock of swift electric fire 

That moment been 
And touched my frame with hot and vengeful ire, 
It had not brought me pang of pain more dire 

Than thrilled me then. 

Today I mourn for her, "But not as those 

Who have no hope;" 
Her sainted face the future shall disclose 
And I shall find her, gracing like a rose, 

The heavenly slope. 

— October 27, 1893. 



THE INSISTENCY OF SONG. 

Once — in the night — I heard a wild bird singing 
A snatch of its daylight song— 

A little burst that tunefully came ringing 
Night's corridors along. 

50 



From out the silence deeply pre-existing 

That wild bird's sudden note — 
A brief sweet song forevermore insisting — 

My sense of hearing smote. 

'Twas hushed apace. As swift as it had risen 

To charm the ears of men, 
'Twas carcerate in its own little prison, 

And silence reigned again. 

But now and then from memory's shades upspring- 
ing, 

There comes again to me 
The snatch of song I heard the wild bird singing — 

The bird I could not see. 

And so sometimes amid life's endless duty 

Beset with shades along, 
Suddenly there come to charm us with their beauty 

Snatches of olden song, 

—1889. 



IT TOUCHED A CHORD. 

In the holiest place where the cherubim 

Their ceaseless vigils spent 
Israel's High Priest but once a year 

With fear and trembling went; 
And no one else in that holy place 

Could set profaning feet — 
His priest alone to enter there 

Jehovah counted meet. 

5i 



Today I went to the house of God 

Where people are wont to meet, 
Bringing their gifts of prayer and praise 

To lay at the Master's feet. 
I heard the prayers the brethren prayed, 

The sermon the preacher preached, 
But only the song they sang at last 

My inmost being reached. 

The song they sang was an olden one — 

Both words and tune were old; 
(These new-made songs may silver be, 

But the olden ones are gold.) 
It touched a chord in my inmost self 

Life's holiest things among, — 
My mother was wont to sing that song 

In the days when I was young. 

'Tis strange methinks about this chord 

In the inmost souls of men, 
That only the faintest touch may wake 

To sweetest thrills again; 
By day the cadence of a song, 

By night the wind's faint moan, 
As if by magic may bring back scenes 

We'd thought forever flown. 

A tinkling bell or a singing bird, 

Or an insect on the ground, 
May reach the inmost souls of men 

And cause the chord to sound; 

52 



In the crowded mart this chord may thrill 

At sound of a stranger's tone, 
Or in the silence of midnight hours 

When a far off flute is blown. 

Sometimes, alone, a strange sense comes 

That naught of earth could bring, 
Then I have thought this chord was moved 

By the rush of an angel's wing; 
Leastwise the look of a sainted face, 

The sound of a silent tongue, 
Were seen and heard, and the soul was glad 

Its loved and lost among. 

— 1 891 



"IN MEMORY OF 



As o'er and o'er these words I read 

Upon the moss grown, carven stones 
That stood above the crumbled bones, 
I fell to musing and I said: 

"In memory of , and what is that 

Of solace or of cheer? whereat 
Resides today one knowing aught 
That these low sleepers living wrought? 

"None to be found? Then why aver 
That so and so lies buried here? 
If when I die, I have not done 
Some deeds of good to bear me on 

53 



Adown the years, remembered well 
By hearts that joy those deeds to tell. 

raise not o'er my moldering frame 
A stone to recollect my name. 

"Upon the hearts of living flesh 

That thrill with all the thrills I felt 
While in the flesh my spirit dwelt, 

I'd like my memory ever fresh; 

But if when I lie down alone 

No heart but that of chiseled stone 

Will cherish me, I'd rather fall 

And be forgotten all in alL" 

1 passed along. Another train 

Of thought went thro' my pulsing brain: 
"I ask perhaps too much, too much; 
Not every one that lives can touch 
The desk of Fame and with its pen 
Write on the memories of men; 
Most must be wise nor ask more boon 
Than memory of a senseless stone. 

"The sunbeams with a passing gleam 
Come slanting down in ceaseless stream; 
One may be caught by prismal hand 
And live in books in many a land, 
But shall the rest, because they fall 
And lose themselves in earth's great pall, 
Refuse to shine? No; I am wrong — 
I, one poor one of earth's great throng. 

54 



*'Best fame indeed is that whose chime 
Thrills human hearts o'er tide and time, 
And still forever rings out and in 
The e'er recurring tribes of men, 
But than no fame, as millions have — 
The orphan child — the patient slave — 
Sure better fame it is to own 
The memory of one faithful stone, 

"And yet — and yet — I can not tame 
A deep, unceasing thirst for fame; 
I shudder at Oblivion's dream 
And would not cross o'er Lethe's stream 
To that void realm, but fain would tread 
In memory's fields when I am dead; 
I want the hearts of men to keep 
Memory of me when laid to sleep." 

— Yale College, 1876. 



JACOB'S DREAM. 

(Genesis xxviii, 12.) 

A pilgrim fell to dreaming, 

He saw a ladder stand, 
One end against the heavens, 

The other on the land; 
And on that ladder wending 

The heavens and earth between, 
Ascending and descending 

Angelic hosts were seen. 

55 



The pilgrim waked from dreaming: 

In awe he looked around, 
He'd found the gate of heaven 

And slept on sacred ground; 
To mark the spot he huilded 

An altar at the dawn, 
Then vowed a vow at Bethel 

Before he journeyed on. 

Tho' many an age has vanished 

Since Jacob slept and dreamed, 
And saw this wondrous ladder 

O'er which the angels streamed, 
Yet unto weary pilgrims 

Who walk the earth today, 
The Father sends sweet comfort 

In quite the self-same way. 

The heavens still are bending, 

Still earth is sacred ground, 
God's saints are still ascending, 

His angels coming down; 
On land or sea they ever 

Their sleepless vigils keep, 
And every place is Bethel 

Where God's beloved sleep. 



56 



THE MINSTREL OF THE AIR. 

There dwells in air a minstrel rare: 
Nor you nor I have seen him there, 
Yet many a day along the way 
Both you and I have heard him play. 

Like tones of bells in distant dells 
Sometimes his music swoons and swells; 

Sometimes 'tis more the sullen roar 

Of ocean on a far off shore. 

Sometimes meseems he almost dreams 

So gently forth his music streams; 
Then waking wide a surging tide 
Goes roaring 'round on every side. 

When winds blow chill o'er vale and hill 
His music soundeth loud and shrill; 

But when they blow with warmth aglow 
His music then is sweet and low. 

When some soft breeze scarce stirs the trees 
A hum is heard like swarms of bees; 
But when the gale is big with bale, 
Lo! sobbing moan and piercing wail. 

Oft thro' the night, when skies are bright, 
Or when the heavens are hid from sight, 
O'er field and spire he strikes his lyre 
And interludes day's voiceful choir. 

57 



Full many a maid almost afraid 

Has heard this minstrel's serenade, — 

From dark. to dawn thro' curtains drawn 
Has heard him playing on and on. 

Full many a swain on lonely lane, 

Catching this minstrel's eerie strain, 

Has touched his steed to quicker speed 
And hied him home past wood and mead. 

And souls there are 'neath sun and star 
Who've heard this harper from afar, 

And feigned his strains the faint refrains 
Of music on the heavenly plains. 

O everywhere this minstrel rare 

Dwells in the viewless clouds of air, 

And many an hour in ceaseless shower 
His music falls with mystic power. 

—1899. 



NATURE'S WORSHIP. 

See! grass and bearded grain heads 

Keep bowing now and then, 
As if they made obeisance 

And raised their heads again. 
O why this ceaseless service 

In Nature everywhere? 
'Tis thus the grasses worship — 

They bow their heads in prayer. 

58 



A MOURNING ROBIN. 

I hear the plaint of a robin calling 

Through all the dreary day; 
The air is chill and rain is falling 
And yet that robin keeps a-calling 
His loved one gone away. 

The nest they built has lost its jewel, 

The mother bird is flown; 
In broken plaint he makes renewal 
Calling for her the precious jewel 
But yesterday his own. 

He calls, but there is no replying — 

O day so damp and chill! 
Upon the hillside she is lying 
And to his call gives no replying — 
O grave so deep and still! 

Beside the mother calmly sleeping 

Two little darlings bide; 
God gave them for her tender keeping 
And all of them are sweetly sleeping, 

Sleeping side by side. 

He could have borne the loss serenely 

Of those two birdlings fair; 
It is her loss who was so queenly, 
Who made his days pass so serenely 
That is so hard to bear. 

59 



And so the robin broken-hearted, 

'Mid chilling air and rain, 
Keeps calling, calling his departed, 
And O his call's so broken-hearted, 

My heart is filled with pain. 

-March 18, 1895. 

NIGHT BRINGETH REST. 

The day is gone and night hath robed the world 

In sombre garb 
Thro' whose dark folds from heavenly heights is 
hurled 

The lightning's barb. 

The mighty boom of cloudland guns is heard 

In upper air, 
And showers of shot that hurt not beast nor bird 

Fall everywhere. 

I'm all alone. While falls the pattering rain 

On turf and dome, 
I catch besides an old familiar strain 

Oft heard at home. 

The cricket's song in endless monotone 

Thro' rain and night, 
Like magic wand recalls the seasons flown 

With golden light; 

And friends come back I shall not see again 

In fleshly mold, 
But here tonight our spirits seem to blend 

Just as of old. 

60 



Strange power is this, the hours of sunless night 

Seem to possess: 
To bring again the scenes of youth and light 

Our souls to bless. 

My heart is glad, tho' all who hold me dear 

Are far away, 
Since sunless light has brought me better cheer 

Than sunlit day. 

And now to rest; mine eyes are heavy grown 

And fain would close: 
God grant the peace may always be my own 

This night bestows. 

—1888. 



MOTHER LOVE. 

O love so dear with title clear 
To liege of men both far and near, 
How can I bring my powers to sing 
Thy praise enough — thou heavenly thing! 

O rich and sweet, O more than meet 
For sinners such as give it greet, 
This love so pure that comes to cure 
The many hurts men must endure. 

Stars, moon and sun may cease to run 
The orbits theirs long since begun, 
But not till then the sons of men 
Of mother love shall know the end. 



1892. 



61 



ODE TO SHAKESPEARE. 

Great^Bard of Avon, many the vanished years 
Since ebbed and flowed thy wondrous tides of 
song! 
What countless eyes have shed earth's scalding 
tears, 
Feeling again thy soul's hot hate of wrong! 
What timorous hearts have laughed at ghostly 
fears, 
Catching the strength that made thy heroes 
strong! 

W r ho taught thee thus to sing such deathless strains ? 

Whence came to thee such mighty grasp of 
things? 
What height gave view o'er such unbounded plains 

With all their streams of errant serfs and kings ? 
Who led thy feet where fair Apollo reigns 

That thou mightest quaff Pieria's fabled springs? 

While bends the sky and burns yon blazing sun, 
And glittering stars bedeck Night's sable brow, — 

While sparkling rivers back to oceans run, 

And human hearts to kindred hearts make vow, 

Thy work, great bard, so all superbly done, 
To Time's decree the knee shall never bow. 

—1899. 



62 



"THE PIKERS AT HOME." 

Pikers, all hail! Hail, "Pikers at Home!" 

Hail the return of our festival day! 
Hail to the watchword we bring as we come: 

Piker once Piker is Piker for aye! 
Some of us come from the toil of high noon, 

Others have come from the eventide's gloam, 
All of us count it both blessing and boon 

Once more to meet with the "Pikers at Home." 

Many the lands that are scattered o'er earth 

Lustrous as stars that jewel the night, — 
Best of them all is the land of our birth, 

Bright as the sun with Freedom's clear light. 
Close to the heart of this nation so proud 

There is a spot 'neath heaven's high dome, 
Whereat tonight is gathered this crowd 

Seeking good cheer with the "Pikers at Home." 

Here in the days that are vanished away, 

Braving all dangers our forefathers encamped; 
Here they came down to the close of their day, 

Leaving their lives on their children enstamped; 
Living they loved and were loved in this place, 

Dying were buried deep down in its loam, 
Over the limits of time and of space 

They are still Pikers, yea, Pikers at Home. 

Famous the song that was sung of Joe Bowers, 

Lover of Sally and brother of Ike, 
Song that was sung till this County of ours 

Grew into statehood, the great "State of Pike." 

63 



Since those old days when the promise of gold 
Proved for so many like bubbles of foam, 

Much about Pike the world has been told — 
Much about Pike and the Pikers at Home. 

Good as the Garden of Eden this "state" — 

Better her highways for buggy and bike; 
Adam and Eve no apple e'er ate 

Such as are. grown in the orchards of Pike; 
Finest her cattle, her corn and her wheat — 

Sweetest her melon, her peach and her pome — 
Never have people more good things to eat — 

Witness this feast of the "Pikers at Home!" 

Pikers, all hail! Tis good to be here, 

Hailing each other with heartiest glee! 
Rest is so sweet even once in a year 

Under the shade of the old rooftree! 
Fill up your goblets, O brothers, again, 

Pledge one another, wherever you roam, 
Still to be always the truest of men — 

True to old Pike and the Pikers at Home. 

— December 16, 1898. 



LUCK AND PLUCK. 

When we fail, we cry: "Misfortune 

Foils our every forward thrust." 
When we win, we say: "We did it" — 
Then we give ourselves the credit, 
And our hearts are full of trust. 

—1878. 

64 



RESIGNATION. 

I know not how soon my life shall be ended, 
I know not what bows against me are bended 
Nor how from death's darts I'm thus far defended, 

I know that death's darts about me are flying — 
For neighbors and friends about me are dying; 
I see the new graves where dead ones are lying. 

I know there's a shaft for me in death's quiver — ■ 
Some day my frail urn that arrow shall shiver 
And leave it in ruins beside the dark river. 

I dread not the stroke. I make no endeavor 

To ward off the blow intended to sever 

The bondage of earth and to free me forever. 

Like eagle encaged I'm evermore turning 
My eyes to the sun effulgently burning, 
And longing to fly, this meaner life spurning, 

—1889. 



QUESTIONS FOR THE MATERIALIST. 

Did the motes that danced in my brain last year 
Transmit life's unnumbered events? 

Can inanimate things by chance cohere 
And make animate things with sense? 

Does spirit find birth in material springs 

That have but a temporal range? 
Is memory a fruit of corporeal things 

That cycle forever in change ? 
1883. 

65 



SONG OF THANKSGIVING. 

The white moon peeps thro' my window blind 

As I'm sitting alone tonight, 
O'erthinking the years I have left behind 

And the days that have taken flight. 
My heart is full of a nameless thrill 

That my life has been so sweet, 
And I fain would hurry to Zion's hill 

To bow at the Giver's feet. 

The year just going has brought me boon 

As rich as the years gone by: 
The skies w r ere clear at the harvest noon 

When the golden crops were dry; 
Abundant grain was garnered then 

For the wintry days ahead, 
And I thank the Giver of good to men 

For supplies of daily bread. 

No fell disease with ghastly shrouds 

Has come in grim disguise; 
No war has spread its baleful clouds 

Athwart my azure skies; 
But the dove of peace — the white winged dove — 

Has built in my own rooftree, 
And the breezes have floated the banner of love 

O'er all my land and sea. 

So now I'm singing as best I can 

My glad thanksgiving song 
To Him who holds me by the hand 

And leads me safe along. 

66 



I am not worthy his smallest gift, 
Yet He gives me large and free, 

And so my song of praise I lift 
For His goodness unto me. 



-1883. 



TO A YOUNG MAN. 

(Who left his betrothed at the gate and went to get some cigars.) 

Whatever test of things accounted best 

Her life must stand, 
Those selfsame things, whatever they may be 

Of self demand. 

If that dear girl unspotted from the world 

Must ever be, 
Thou, too, be clean — whatever sullies her 

Will sully thee. 

Since she on thee for all the years to be 

Her life confers — 
Her lips are pure, her very breath is sweet — 

Keep thine as hers. 

— April 5, 1896. 



UNDER THE STARS. 

Under the stars as they shine tonight 
In the wide blue vault above me, 

In fancy I hear the angel flight 

Of dear ones vanished from mortal sight, 

Who come again in this magic light 
To whisper how they love me. 

67 



Under the stars as they- gleam- and glow 

In the wide blue vault above me, 
I can almost see as they come and go 
As gently and white as the falling snow, 
My loved and lost who have flown below 
To whisper how they love me. 

Under the stars on their nightly race 
In the wide blue vault above me, 
I almost feel on my upturned face 
The kisses my angels delight to trace 
As they come tonight from a throne of Grace 
To whisper how they love me. 

Under the stars on their sentinel beat 

In the wide blue vault above me, 
I feel in my breast as I walk the street 
A strange deep sense of composure sweet — 
The sainted make lighter my weary feet 
As they whisper how they love me. 



1886. 



WESTWARD. 

All things have had but one intent 
From far Creation's first event: 
Man was the end when Time began, 
And Time will end in perfect man. 

The dawning of the human race 
Was in an unknown Orient place; 
As goes the day from eastern source, 
The race has kept a western course. 

68 



What time approached Redemption's morn 

And Christ in Bethlehem was born, 

His star of all the stars the best 

Led eastern wise men toward the west. 

God's angels came from heaven by night, 
Clad in their shining robes of light, 
And over the land of Israel's pride 
Broke first the gospel's morningtide. 

Thence spreading west to Asia's bound 
It crossed the sea and Greece was crowned; 
It crossed a farther sea, and Rome 
Became the gospel's ancient home. 

O'er towering Alps still spreading west 
It made the Gaul and Teuton blest; 
Once more it crossed the sea and dwelt 
Among the isles of Pict and Celt. 
While centuries fled the gospel's light, 
Broke through the gloom of sin's long night 
And Hope woke men with her bright smiles 
From Orient lands to British isles. 

At length it crossed Atlanta's deep 
And found a western world asleep; 
Today that world has come to be 
God's beacon light on land and sea. 

Here on this glorious vantage ground 
Is soon the knell of Time to sound? 
No! Earth hath yet a mighty span 
To where the gospel day began. 

69 



The East gave us — shall we not give 
To those who farther westward live? 
Shall we to them the day deny 
Who in the westward shadows lie ? 

Through all the ages that have flown 
No brighter day was ever known 
Than this to us so all divine — 
Yet brighter day than this shall shine. 

Though Heaven forbid us see that day, 
Forbid it Heaven that we should stay 
The onward course of things foresent 
To God's one, far, divine event. 



1899. 



FROM UNKNOWN TO UNKNOWN. 

Sail on, fair cloud, o'er the upper deep and do 

Thy mission well I 
From ocean thou hast come to fall as dew 
Or gladdening rain, and then return unto 

The ocean's swell. 

So am I come from God's great unknown sea 

On purpose sent; 
And I as thou, O cloud, must faithful be 
And then go down to God's eternity 

When I am spent. 



70 



VICTORIA REGINA. 

While ages roll and men abide, 
While ebbs and flows earth's human tide, 
When history's muse the past shall scan 
And pen the great of every land, 
Amid them all from earliest born 
To him who lives the latest morn, 
Among the sovereigns earth has known 
No name shall shine above thine own- 
Victoria, 

Whilst over Britain thou hast reigned, 
How many a realm has waxed and waned! 
How many a monarch come and gone, 
And yet, good queen, thou reignest on! 
What folk beneath the sun has seen 
For three score years a Christian queen? 
What nation of the world has known 
A reign so glorious as thine own, 
Victoria? 

And thou shalt reign. Pale Death may claim 
The mortal form that bears thy name, 
But that which thou hast earth bequeathed 
With fadeless laurels shall be wreathed. 
Above the world when thou art dead 
In benediction thou shalt spread 
Immortal hands and men will bow 
For blessing then as they do now, 
Victoria. 

—1898. 

7i 



THREE BLUES OF SPRINGTIME. 

I found today in sunny nooks 

Blue violets sweet and coy, 
The earliest factors of the year 

To give the sun employ; 
They nodded under sheltered banks 

As is their modest way, 
And lent their beauty to the earth 

Thro' all the vernal day. 

Above them in the barren trees 

The blue birds twittered glad, 
And fluttering wooed in tender mood 

The mate that must be had; 
They first return from southern land 

As harbingers of spring, 
And weary hearts grow glad again 

When they begin to sing. 

And higher still the soft blue sky — 

The azure arch above — 
Is symbol of our Fathers care, 

His canopy of love. 
This vaulted sky with sunny days — 

The bluebirds flown from far — 
The violets, — they are tokens all 

How wide God's mercies are. 



1888. 



72 



FOR GREED OF EMPIRE OR OF GOLD. 

Where battle's storm had passed with awful sweep, 
I found a beardless boy among the dead, 
With covering none save Heaven's azure deep, 
And only earth as pillow for his head. 

Sometime, somewhere, an inconsiderate lad 
Heard martial music blown on piper's stem, 
Looked where men marched in warlike trappings 

clad, 
And gave his name to be as one of them. 

He little thought he signed himself that day 
To be henceforth a puppet and a slave, 
To hear command and mutely to obey, 
And find his portion in a nameless grave. 

Here — 'twas this morn — upon this gory spot 
Grim squadrons stood, and he was with the rest 
Drawn up in line to shoot at and be shot — 
And he was shot — look how they tore his breast! 

Poor mangled boy with face upturned and pale, 
The things that charmed that day he signed his 

name 
Were no defense where fell the iron hail 
'Mid war's wild thunder and its withering flame. 

Whose was the cause that brought him here to die? 
Not his indeed, nor yet his father's fold; 
His blood was shed beneath a foreign sky 
For some one's greed of empire or of gold. 

73 



How long, O Lord, wilt Thou withhold Thy hand 
Nor hinder those who send such boys afar 
To wreck the peace of some unsinning land 
And risk their lives where war's grim chances are! 

— May 23, 1900. 



THE BULL AND THE BOAR. 

(A Fable.) 

Long time two beasts lived neighbors close — 

A bull and a boar, 
And the bull had proved to be bellicose 

Often and o'er. 
The bull would come in the boar's sight 
And dare the boar to come and fight; 
The boar was simply holding his right 

And nothing more. 

Years passed and those beasts lived neighbors 
still— 

The bull and the boar; 
But the bull desired the boar to kill 

More and more. 
The bull remembered one time they met 
When the boar's tusk in his side was set 
And the wound then made was tender yet — 

Tender and sore. 

They eyed each other and stood apart — 

The bull and the boar, 
But neither was willing a war to start — 

They'd warred before. 

74 



The bull he bellowed and shook his head 
To scare the boar, but the boar instead 
Charged on the bull and his tusks ran red 
With bullish gore. 

The conflict was on it was plain to see 

As ne'er before; 
The bull was as mad as he could be 

And so was the boar. 
'Til get you yet," the bull he cried, 
'Til see if you do," the boar replied, 
And he gave him another dig in the side 

That made him roar. 

They fought and they fought for many a day, 

The bull and the boar, 
And the fight was mostly the boar's way 

Twelve weeks or more. 
But the bull was big and his strength was great 
And his heart was hot with the fire of hate; 
At last he fell with all his weight 

On the little boar. 

"Fair fight — let up," onlookers said, 

"Let's peace restore;" 
But the bull he only shook his head 

And horned some more. 
Between the thrusts he madly cried, 
"He stuck his tushes in my side, 
But worse than that he hurt my pride — 

This little boar." 

75 



And the fight went on to one event 

Twixt bull and boar, 
The boar fought till his strength was spent 

Then fought no more. 
The great big bull at last withdrew 
And all the world went bellowing through: 
"I've done what I set out to do — 

I've killed the boar.', 

"And why, O bull," onlookers asked, 

"Did you kill the boar?" 
And then this reason the bull unmasked 

With a mighty roar: 
"I killed the boar because his ground, 
Tho' small in limits measured round, 
Was richer than any I had found; 
And when I wanted his wealth to share 
He showed his tushes and raised his hair 
Which made me mad and then and there 
I swore, as only a bull can swear, 

I'd kill the boar." 

— March 17, 1900. 



"DON'T CHEER, BOYS— THE POOR FEL- 
LOWS ARE DYING." 

O long and loud the cannon boomed by Santiago's 

Bay, 
And many a man of war went down that bloody, 

bloody day. 

76 



From out the bay the Spanish ships ran smoking 

black and fast, 
Hojping to 'scape the frost that blights in battle's 

wintry blast. 

Then sailing West each did his best to get beyond 

the reach 
Of the Yankee ships which watched for them off 

Santiago's beach. 

But all too soon the fray began and fiery missiles 
flew, 

Which, falling on those Spanish ships, went pierc- 
ing thro' and thro'. 

Swift, one by one, those ships gave up the awful 

race they ran, 
The battle which the Yankees waged, too fierce 

for ship and man. 

From stem to stem grim horror reigned 'mid fire 

and blood and death, 
And men were dying everywhere by battle's 

with'ring breath. 

'Twas then the great-souled Phillips stood, his 

men in triumph crying, 
And said to them, "O boys, don't cheer — poor 

fellows, they are dying!" 
1899. 



77 



"WIFE OF BENEDICT ARNOLD." 

(While a student in Sheffield Scientific School of Yale College in 1875 
and 1876, I saw the above inscription on a tumbled down tombstone in the 
old cemetery at New Haven, Conn.) 

A gravestone lay upon the ground 
With weeds and grasses tangled 'round, 
And when I turned it over and read 
This terse inscription there was spread: 

•'The wife of Benedict Arnold." 

* 

Then was I filled with large surprise, 
Such as I could not well disguise, 
To find upon a carven stone 
A tarnished name so widely known— 
The name of Benedict Arnold. 

At once I thought of all the shame 
That clings about the traitors name, 
And cried: "Why should her ashes share 
That which is shameful everywhere — 

The name of Benedict Arnold?" 

If she was kind, if she was true, 
If christian making small ado, 
We can not tell. This silent stone 
Makes this confession — this alone — 

"The wife of Benedict Arnold." 

This simple stone about her saith 
No name, no date of birth or death; 
Here is inscribed one single thought 
In chiseled letters plainly wrought: 

"The wife of Benedict Arnold." 

78 



O lasting shame! O deep disgrace! 
Enough in life's all conscious race! 
Why o'er her in unconscious sleep, 
Upon a stone such memory keep: 

"The wife of Benedict Arnold." 
1891. 



WIND AND TIDE. 

How the waters quake and quiver 
On the breast of lake and river, 
How the treetops shake and shiver 
When the breeze begins to blow! 

How old ocean groans and grumbles, 
How the water moans and mumbles 
As o'er hindering stones it tumbles 
When the tide begins to flow! 

Whence the winds that wake the river, 
Cause the lakes to quake and quiver, 
Make the treetops shake and shiver — 
Whence and whither, do you know? 

Or the tide that moans and mumbles 
As o'er hindering stones it tumbles 
While old ocean groans and grumbles, 
Why its strange mysterious flow? 
1885. 



79 



TO THE NORTH WIND. 

Blow loud, blow long, blow fierce and strong 

O North wind icy cold! 
Grasp all that's free, lock land and sea 

In thy relentless hold. - 

Bring ice, bring snow, bring all thou know 

Of winter's warlike things, 
Yet by my hearth good Mistress Mirth 

In sweet contentment sings. 

Draw barb, draw blade, draw all that's made 

To try the world outside, 
Strike v/ith thy might, hurt clay and night 

Till woe the world betide. 

Make fears, make tears, make ills and cares, 

Send troubles thick and fast, 
Good Comfort's here and I've no fear 

Of thy cold killing blast. 

— 1890. 



REMEMBER ME. 

My memory garden blooms with cherished friends 

Whose lives inwrought some fragrance into mine; 
Thy life a charm my memory garden lends, 

And I would be among the charms of thine. 
Remember me. In some fair flowery nook 

Of memory's garden give a place for me, 
Whereby flows Friendship's deep perennial brook 

And over which Love sings her song of glee. 

—1884. 

80 



NIGHT. 

O lovely night! How in yon upper blue 
The lamps of God do tremble as they stand 
As footlights to a stage superbly grand, 

But which not yet to sublunary view 

Has been disclosed! And since to me and you 
Appear no scenes of that becurtained land, 
We'll look on these around on every hand. 

How brightly gleam the sparkling gems of dew 
Depending from a thousand graceful forms! 

And list! there's whispering of the breathing air 
As bending low it agitates the charms 

Of these fair ones! Now all are free from care 
And bide the time: they hold their jeweled arms 

And calmly wait the silence signal there. 

-Yale, 1875. 



GOD'S WORK AND MAN'S. 

My random gaze fell on a flying kite. 
I saw the kite aloft a little pace 
Leap up and down along its airy race 

Like wild horse on the plains — quick to the right 

And then to the left sheering as if affright. 
Above the kite in far off azure space 
I saw a bird float on with quiet grace 

And pass beyond the limits of my sight. 

'Tis ever thus, methought, with human things 

And things of God. Lo! men with puny hands 
Hold fragile frames a little while by strings 

That reach but tiny lengths, but God commands 

81 



And living forms unfettered spread their wings 
And range the world o'er all its seas and lands. 

—Yale, 1876. 



DREAMLAND. 

I love to roam about the dreamland plains. 

When banks of cloud in golden garb are drest 

And piled at sunset 'long the distant west, 
I love to leave the toils of time, the stains 
Of sin, and all the sublunary pains 

That so distract our frames, and go in quest 

Of peace in happy fields of dreamland rest. 
I wander up and down meandering lanes 

Among the trees and flowers and borders green, 
And feel my hot brow cooled by zephyrs blown 

From sylvan groves with shadows all between; 
'Tis then I lose all sense of grief my own 

And dwell at ease 'mid many a dreamland scene 
Or worship at some dreamland sovereign's throne. 

—1878. 



THE HEARSE. 

What coach is that? Behold yon rolling wheels 
Moving along the stony paved street 
Behind the tramp of iron-shodden feet 

Which ring upon the stones. Whence roll those 
reels 

Bearing aloft a car with plumes, the seals 
Of sad intent? Those drapings dark that greet 
Observant e,yes — the trappings all so neat — 

82 



What mean they? Ah! I see — their meaning steals 

Across my brain — it is the coach of Death! 
It is that car in which we all must ride 
When pale and cold we wear Death's bridal 
wreath 
And go with him his unconsenting bride; 

In it Death takes us to his home beneath 
The sod, and there we lie down by his side. 

—Yale, 1876. 



THE GRAVE. 

And what is this — this opening in the ground 

Just newly made? I look around and lo! 

An answer comes, the very truth I know. 
It is a grave. It is a home low-down 
Wherein shall dwell some one alone. No frown 

Shall ever wrinkle here; no jovial flow 

Of genial hours; no words of friend or foe, 
But only silence. Here of one renown 

Are all. No proud with haughty mien, no eyes 
Cast down in shame, no good, no youth, no age, 

No simple ones to smirk, no overwise 
To criticise too harshly. Prince and page, 

And sire and son, and who of time that dies, 
All here lie down and cease a puny rage. 

—Yale, 1876. 



MY DEATHLESS SELF. 

I'm dying aye, and yet not all I die — 
I recollect the things of long ago. 

83 



In ceaseless current through my body flow 
The earthy motes that halt so restlessly 
Upon the shores of my mortality, 

And then rush back with Nature's undertow 

To Nature's deep whose limits none can know: 
'Tis thus I'm dying aye, yet do not die. 

That which dies not, the deathless self of me, 
Unchanging is. 'Tis this that hopes and loves 

Amid all change; 'tis this by faith can see 
The future through; 'tis this the bygone proves 

And laughs at thoughts of brief mortality; 
My deathless self incarnate lives and moves. 

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 

"Non omnis moriar" good Horace wrote 

Long, long ago in proud imperial Rome. 

He somehow knew that when the end should 
come, 
And at his feet the keel of Charon's boat 
Should grate upon the sands, and then afloat 

Go back again with him to Hades' home, 

He somehow knew that o'er the Stygian foam 
His fame would not be carried. Every note 

His mortal sang would pulse in ceaseless beat 
Along the shores of time, nor in the rush 

Of human progress fail. As wine more sweet 
With added seasons grows, or as the flush 

Of morning with the day, so more complete 
His fame would grow, sweeter his music's gush. 

-1883. 

84 



Tin fli>an£ flDoobs. 



PART II. 



IN LIGHTER VEIN. 



LASSES. 

Toast. 

Lasses, O bless 'em, ye angels above 'em! 
Lasses, sweet lasses, I al'ays did love 'em! 
Al'ays with lips was I willing to prove 'em — 
Syrups or sweethearts. 

Response. 

Upon my word, toastmaster, the theme you've 

given me 
At first glance seems quite easy and charming as 

can be, 
But when one gets to thinking and lets his fancy 

play 
Just what is meant by lasses 'tis difficult to say. 

At first I thought of lasses a-comin' thro' the rye, 
And of the kissing laddies who made nobody cry; 
And then I thought of 'lasses a-comin' thro' the 

cane 
And eaten by the laddies until they cried with pain. 

"What can be meant by lasses?" I queried all 

around, 
But in the varied answers no satisfaction found; 
Of all the answers given I deem the echo's best: 
"Alas! a lass a lass is — " I failed to hear the rest. 

87 



Perhaps some one familiar with home's domestic 

scenes 
May think 'tis plain that lasses just plain molasses 

means, 
But surely he's forgotten the Missouri girls we prize 
Are just as much Mo. lasses as the syrup that he 

buys. 

Methought I heard somebody, bolder than all the 

rest, 
A-talkin' of lickin' lasses and makin' that the test; 
I'll wager a head o' cabbage against a mess o' 

greens, 
No teacher here can tell us what "lickin' lasses" 

means. 

'Tis true the simplest meaning that easy words 

convey 
Should help the question settle and drive all doubts 

away, 
And children eating syrup from all restrictions 

freed — 
Why, that is licking 'lasses, most certainly, indeed. 

But stop! when girls are sealing the letters they 

have penned 
And placing the postage on 'em so Uncle Sam will 

send, 
Then whether those girls are happy, or tearful and 

forlorn, 
They all are licking lasses as sure as you are born. 

88 



Again, the most of teachers use switches now and 

then 
To make indifferent children their business attend; 
Whenever the girls are punished — (I'm glad the 

times are few,) — 
There's nothing else to call it— that's licking lasses 

too. 

But why attempt still further to make this matter 

plain, 
Since every step we've taken has seemed so much 

in vain? 
"Alas! a lass a lass is — " the echo answered back, 
And many a lass makes lasses in grammar and in 

fact. 

Then let us say, "O bless 'em, ye angels high 

above 'em!" 
And thus confess: "Sweet lasses, I've loved, I still 

do love 'em! 
And with these lips as ever I'm willing now to 
prove 'em — 

Syrups or sweethearts." 

— December, 1894. 



CAIN AND ABEL. 
When Abel was able to bring his sheep 

And Cain his cane did fetch, 
Then Cain grew mad and raised his cane 
And Abel he beat till Abel was slain 
And was not able to be Abel again, 

And Cain became a wretch. 

89 



THEY VOTED STRAIGHT FOR PIKE. 

Once on a time the gods in conclave sat 
And talked about the various lands of earth: 

Both pro's and con's were said of this and that — 
Some truly sad and some provoking mirth. 

After awhile to be from all doubts freed 
Some one proposed a viva voce test, 

And lo! they were unanimously agreed 
The U. S. A. of all the lands was best. 

Then rose a point about its many states: 
"Which is the first of all its forty odd?" 

And, don't you know, they had such warm debates 
That never a one in all the crowd did nod. 

At length 'twas moved: "Missouri's first of all;" 
'Twas seconded and then the ballot spread, 

And when the box was opened not a ball 

Was black. "The ballot's clear," the chairman 
said. 

Then came the question most momentous yet: 
"Missouri's counties — which of them is first?" 

Each god had one on which his heart was set 
And now debate ran fiercer far than erst. 

Each praised his own, yet very strange to say 
Each somehow failed to call his county's name, 

And in the East were signs of coming day 
Before the crowd to a conclusion came. 

90 



As last resort some one proposed to vote 
By written ballot — each one to his like; 

When these were read in alphabetic rote, 
Lo! all the gods had voted straight for Pike. 

— January, 1900. 



CHRISTMAS IN ASHANTEE. 

A kinky-headed kid whose home is in Ashantee 
Once wrote a Christmas letter and sent it on to 
Santa. 

Now no one knows exactly where to send to Santa, 
Nor did that kinky kid whose home is in Ashantee. 

And yet he wrote a letter — wrote it in Ashantee, 
Then stuck a cent upon it and sent it on to Santa. 

It read about this way, this letter sent to Santa, 
And written by that kid whose home is in Ashantee: 

To Santy Claus — 

Dear Santy: My home am in Ashantee — 
De house am sorter holey, de chimbly sorter slanty. 
A kinky-headed kid, I libs wid my ole Aunty, 
An' dis am what I wants — a B'goat an' a Banty. 
I wants de goat to butt, an' den I wants de Banty 
To strut aroun' an' crow when Billy butts my Aunty. 
It'll be de jollies' Christmas I eber had, dear Santy, 
If yo' will only fotch a B'goat an' a Banty. 
Yo's truly, Pickaninny, 

At Aunty's in Ashantee. 

9i 



Whether the kinky kid whose home is in Ashantee, 
Who wrote a Christmas letter and sent it on to 

Santa, 
Received the goat or not, or ever got the banty 
To strut around and crow while Billy butted Aunty, 

I'm sure I cannot tell. 
I only know that Santa 

Has gotten many a letter, written from "a shanty" 
Whose roof was none too good and chimney 

"sorter slanty" 
Asking as useless things as 

a B'goat and a Banty. 

—1898. 



ONCE A PIKER ALWAYS A PIKER. 

I was born in old Pike County 

And I think there's nothing like 'er, 

Tho' I've strayed beyond her border 
Yet at heart I'm still a Piker. 

As a fellow loves his sweetheart 
'Cause he can not help but like 'er, 

So a fellow loves Pike County 
If he's ever been a Piker. 

Sister, sweetheart, wife or mother — 
O the world has nothing like 'er! 

If you ever see a Pikess 
You will want to be a Piker. 

92 



Eastward, westward, north'ard, south'ard 
Upward, down'ard, nothing like 'er! 

Pike's the center of creation 
In the eyes of every Piker. 

All her dead in — well, no matter — 
Still believe there's nothing like 'er; 

When old Gabriel toots his trumpet 
Every Piker'll be a Piker. 

— December, 1897. 



KATE AND ESAU. 

I saw Kate and Esau 
Sitting on a seesaw. 
Also I saw Esau 
Kiss Kate upon the seesaw. 

And Kate she saw 

I saw Esau 
Kiss her upon the seesaw. 

And Esau he saw 

She saw I saw 
Him kiss her upon the seesaw. 

And so I saw 

And Kate she saw 

And Esau he saw 

And therefore we saw — 

He saw, she saw, I saw — 
Them sitting upon a seesaw and kissing, 

Kate and Esau. 

—1898. 

93 



'POSSUM HUNTIN\ 

Don' yo' heah dat ho'n a-tootin? 

Don' yo' heah dem niggahs hootin? 
'Possum huntin' sho' as shootin'. 

Is I gwine? Sho's yo' bo'n, sah; 

Tramp de woods until de mo'n, sah; 
Music in de huntah's ho'n, sah! 

What's er possum? Make me grin, sah, 

At dem questions! Whar's yo' bin, sah? 
Is yo' anybody's kin, sah? 

Shet up niggahs! Dar's ole Bowsah 

Done a-trailin' — he's er rousah 
Trackin' possums — beats ole Towsah. 

How he barkin'! Bet he's treed 'im — 

Barks 's if he almos' seed 'im — 
Le's go git 'im — niggahs need 'im. 

Bowsah sets de woods a-hummin' 

Like a pheasan's wing a-drummin'; 
Talk to 'im, fellah, we's a-comin'! 

Gittin' close — I heahs 'im whinin' 
's if he seed dem eyes a-shinin' 
Ob dat possum he's bin fin'in. 

Dar he am, sah! See dat lump, sah, 

Up dat 'simmon bush — dat hump, sah? 
Ef he coon, kin make 'im jump, sah. 

94 



Dat ain't coon, he stick too tightly; 

Coon jump out ef shake 'im lightly — 
Coon big eyes dey shine mo' brightly. 

Possum, sho'. Sambo, I wush yo' 

Come an' clime dis 'simmon bush, sah; 
Git up quick, I gib yo' push, sah. 

'Fraid he bite yo'? Git up, niggah, 
Yo's de littles'— I'se de biggah — 
Yo's de quickes' on de triggah. 

'Simmons? Dar it am agin, sah! 

Don' know nuffin! Whar's yo' bin, sah? 
Is yo' anybody's kin, sah? 

What yo' say? de tail won\ loosen? 
Co'se it won't dat's not amusin' — 
'Possum tail was made fo' usin'. 

Now yo's got 'im, sorter slap 'im 
Till he ten' like he's a-nappin'; 
Look out, niggah, don' yo' drap 'im! 

Dar, I'se got 'im — now le' go, sah; 

Git out, Bowse, don' yo' know, sah, 
Possum's ours an' not yo's, sah ? 

Am he dead? No, sah; he's playin' 

's if he dead, but yo' go way an' 
Think 'im dead an' leab 'im layin', 

Bime by de possum grin, sah, 

At de way he took yo' in, sah, 
Den skedaddle home agin, sah. 

95 



Is de possum good to eat, sah? 

Jes' de fines' kine ob meat, sah — 
Roas'ed 'possum ha'd to beat, sah. 

Ketch er possum in Octob'r 

Skin or scrape 'im clean all ob'r 
Like er shote fotch from de clob'r, 

Skin or scrape 'im till yo' white 'im, 

Hang 'im whar de moon kin light 'im, 
Whar Jac' Fros' kin come an' bite 'im, 

Den go git 'im, fat on 'simmons, 

Take 'im down an' let de wimmens 
Roas' 'im wid sweet 'tater trimmins, 

An' I tell yo' what's de troof. sah — 

Dar'll be dancin' 'neath dat roof, sah — 
Ebry niggah shake 'is hoof, sah. 

Den yo'll heah de banjo pickin' — 

See de pickaninnies kickin' 
Dancin' "Juba" like de dickens. 

Lots o' white folks — men an' wimmens — 

Fon' o' 'possum fat on 'simmons, 
'Specially wid sweet 'tater trimmin's. 

Roas'ed 'possum an' sweet 'tater, 

Skillet lid turned up fo' waiter — 
Go 'way, boss, I see yo' later! 

But I heahs de roostahs crowin', 

De's de midnight hour a-showin, — 
Toot yo' ho'n, boys, le's be goin'. 

96 —July, 1889. 



MINN-IA-MO ARK-LA. 

Minniamo Arkla is a giant huge and tall 

Who lies in length twelve hundred miles upon this 

earthly ball; 
He ne'er has stood on his one foot — one leg and 

foot has he — 
At least as far as I can tell it looks that way to me. 

Minniamo Arkla — this giant would you see? 

Go hunt up your geography and bring it here to me; 

Now find the U. S. map and down its middle 

stretched 
You'll find this mighty giant, of which I've told 

you, sketched. 

Minniamo Arkla is a giant tall and huge, 

His cap is marked St. Paul, his slippers Baton 

Rouge : 
His eye is shut so tight you'll look for it in vain, 
But his ear is marked Des Moines and his nose is 

very plain. 

Minniamo Arkla, tho' a giant none can mock, 

Wears kneepants and plays marbles — in his pock- 
et's a Little Rock; 

His coat is tagged Jeff City — I don't know 'bout 
his vest — 

But St. Louis is a diamond jeweling his breast. 

Minniamo Arkla — now don't forget the name — 
That was his Indian title; but since the Yankees 
came, 

97 



They've turned it and they've carved it, just as 

they would a ham, 
Till now we know this giant by the name of Uncle 

Sam. 

—1894. 



IN DE CITY OB ST. LOUIS IN 1903. 

Ole 'oman, listen to me — now de chillens all in bed — 
Jess listen whiles I tell yo' what I hea'd de parson 

said, 
What he tole us at de meetin' ob de 'ficial boa'd 

tonight — 
For de parson reads de papers while he ten's de 

gospel light. 
Dars gwine to be er circus — dat egzactly ain't de 

name 
What de parson tole de bredren but it means about 

de same — 
Dar's gwine to be er circus an' he say its gwine to 

be 
In de city ob St. Louis in 1903. 

'Twill be de bigges' circus dat de worl' has eber 

had, 
An' its gwine to be er circus whar dar won't be 

nothin' bad; 
De pasture an' his people widout breakin' ob de 

rules 
Kin go to see de circus as well as de animules. 

98 



All sexes ob religion — de Gentile an' de Jew, 

De Baptis' an' de Methodis' an' de Tiscopalians 

too — 
All sexes ob religion, he say, was gwine to see 
De circus in St. Louis in 1903. 
Dar's gwine to be percessions an' de ban's am 

gwine to play 
An' de tents will cubber acres — dats what de parson 

say — 
An' when yo' gits yo' ticket — 'twill cos' yo' fifty 

cents — 
De'll let yo' in for nothin' to go thro' all dem 

tents. 
Dar'll be jess scads o' goobers an' de pinkes' 

lemonade — 
Dar'll be fried pies an' do'nuts de bestes' eber 

made — 
An' de'll let yo' in at mornin' to stay all day an' see 
Dat circus in St. Louis in 1903. 
Ole 'oman, yo' ought to bin dar to heard 'im 

'spatiate 
About dis country's glory, an' Providence an' fate; 
He say de Lord was in it when Jeff'son took de 

chance 
To purchase Loozyannie f'om Bonypart ob France, 
An' dat de Lord intended f'om far creation's 

birth 
To manifest his glory to all de tribes ob yearth 
In de Miss'sippi valley — de time an' place to be 
In de city ob St. Louis in 1903. 

99 



To help de Lord to show us de glory dat awaits, 
De parson say de Congress ob dese United States 
Would gib five million dolla's to help de cause 

along, 
An' den de whiles de choir was singin' ob er song, 
De States an' corpyrations would march up to de 

table 
An' plank de'se money down as much as de' is 

able ; 
No doubt at all about it — dat circus gwine to be 
In de city ob St. Lous in 1903. 

Ole oman, we mus' see it — we sho'ly can't afford 

To miss dis chance o' seem' de glory ob de Lord; 

Altho we's been good Methodis' we might back- 
slide an' fall 

An' not git into heaven to see de Lord at all. 

So we mus' take de chances dis side de pearly 
gates — 

De parson say de railroads will gib excursion rates — 

An' yo' an' me, ole 'oman, mus' sho'ly go to see 

Dat circus in St. Louis in 1903. 

— March, 1900. 




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